The helicopter landed atop the Homeland building. Sam felt the weariness in her legs as she disembarked. She wasn’t in the mood for the Director, or McClane for that matter. They had a way of gobbling her time. Best to keep the rest of her team busy and working toward figuring out who the hell was redistributing the world’s wealth at breakneck pace.
She motioned to Dan, and he leaned in. She cupped her hand over his ear and raised her voice to be heard over the whine of the helicopter engines. “Get Trojan out of sight. I don’t want the bureaucrats throwing the book at him yet. Maybe let him help you.”
Dan nodded. “I’ll have him check in with the rest of his crowd at that mountain lodge. They seemed pretty plugged in — maybe they’ve learned something helpful.”
Sam agreed. They parted ways. She followed Fluffer toward the executive suite, while Dan, Trojan, and Brock made their way down toward Dan’s office on the worker-bee level.
“Mace tells me you’ve had quite an interesting week.” Homeland Director Henry Blankenship was fifty-something, tallish, with smart eyes, a soft midsection, but a firm handshake. He smiled mostly with his eyes, the reverse of the normal megawatt-powered fakeness endemic in the kinds of guys who usually found themselves in positions as lofty as his. In another life, Sam had often mused, Blankenship might even have been worth a shit.
Sam smiled. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“Thanks for returning on such short notice.”
“No sweat, sir,” Sam said. “It’s not like we were vacationing down there.”
“I’ll need a full report, of course,” the Director said. His face lost a little of its practiced joviality. “I’ll be interested to see how it compares with the tense conversation I had with my Costa Rican counterpart this morning.”
Aha. Mystery solved. The Director hadn’t summoned Sam for a strategy session. More for a dressing-down. “I’ll be sure to include all the details,” she said.
“Please do. There were some interesting, shall we say, tidbits that my counterpart shared with me. They’ve requested some help with a few forensics anomalies at the scene of the event.” The Director’s eyes twinkled a bit.
Sam felt a bit of the blood drain from her face, and fought to keep her expression as neutral as possible. This wasn’t an unexpected development. She and Dan had fired a few rounds, and one of them was lodged in the ass of a DIS agent. But Sam was still caught a little bit off guard by the Director’s veiled accusation. She hoped her surprise didn’t show. I need some sleep, she realized for the fiftieth time.
The Director put on a tired smile. “But all’s well that ends well,” he said. “And we have bigger fish to fry.” He nodded to Mace McClane, who pulled out a paper printout of a PowerPoint briefing. The President’s executive seal was on the top of the presentation. The briefing had been prepared by White House staffers.
“As you undoubtedly saw on your way from the airport,” McClane began, “there’s cause for concern about what many are considering to be an uprising.”
Sam had definite ideas about what might have contributed to the unrest, but she held her tongue. This wasn’t an audience that appreciated out-of-school thinking.
“The President has reason to believe,” McClane went on, “that there are foreign agitators at work within our borders, inciting unrest and escalating violent situations. He’s asked us to find and neutralize these cells.”
Sam nodded, trying to keep the weariness out of her expression. Done well, these kinds of efforts consumed a great deal of time and money to produce marginal results. Done poorly, they turned into witch hunts.
“I’m pulling you off of the financial crime case,” the Director said.
Sam’s jaw clenched. “This isn’t your average financial crimes thing,” she protested. “These people are stealing enough money to buy themselves a continent.”
“Yes,” the Director said, “and while I share your view that such things shouldn’t be allowed to continue, the current civil crisis has a higher priority in the President’s mind. He simply cannot allow a foreign influence to destabilize American society.”
That’s rich, Sam mused. How many countries had the Agency destabilized in the past fifty years? Too many to count. But she had to admit that things took on a different flavor when they happened on one’s home turf. “So you want my team to join the search?”
The Director nodded. “You have my full support.” A wry smile crossed his face. “At least until the Costa Ricans call for your extradition.”
Sam chuckled with a mirth she didn’t feel. She followed her boss out of the Director’s suite, and they walked back toward McClane’s office. “I happen to share your opinion,” McClane said.
“About?”
“The seriousness of the crypto currency theft case you’re working.” McClane turned to look at her. “And also about your assessment of my operational skills.”
Sam flushed, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Mace. I’m a little strung out, and I don’t always think before I open my mouth…”
“It’s okay,” McClane said. “I focus too much energy on the administration and too little on the reason we exist. I appreciate your pointing it out to me.”
“Really, Mace, I’m sorry about the things I said.”
He sighed. “You didn’t pull any punches, that’s for sure. But I accept your apology, and appreciate your honesty. Anyway, we need to figure out how we’re going to tackle this new directive.”
Sam smiled. She’d already thought of an angle. “Foreign fighters on US turf need funding, don’t they?”
Mace stopped and turned to face Sam. “What are you suggesting?”
“Maybe we’ll kill two birds with one stone.”
“You think there’s a relationship between the Bitcoin thefts and the destabilization op the President’s concerned about?”
Sam shook her head. “No. But I think there certainly could be. And there’s only one way to find out for sure. Plus, nine times out of ten, it’s the money trail that leads us to the assholes.”
McClane looked thoughtful. He smiled. “I like it. Press on.”
“Thanks, Mace. And again, I’m really sorry—”
McClane cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I needed to hear it.” He smiled. “But you could certainly work on your bedside manner.”
He handed the White House briefing pages to Sam. “Keep me posted, please. Use whatever resources you need. But be sure to leave me some plausible deniability.”
“Always,” Sam lied.
Sam found Dan, Brock, and Trojan slouched in various chairs around her office. “Green light,” she announced.
“You’re not on notice?” Dan asked with a knowing smile.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Sam said. “The Director’s already had a phone call from down south. But for the moment, we’re good.”
“Trojan has some news for us,” Brock said.
The skinny hacker nodded. “I called back to Lost Man Lake Ranch, and I talked to Vaneesh and Protégé. I’m afraid the news isn’t great.”
“I’d be surprised if it was,” Sam said.
“Looks like the thieves have stolen around fifteen percent of the global supply of Bitcoins,” Trojan said. “And it also looks like they’ve found a way to vectorize the theft algorithm.”
“Meaning?” Sam asked.
“It’s in a computer virus that’s spreading rapidly,” Dan translated.
“So they’re co-opting other people’s computers to steal more Bitcoins for them,” Sam said. “And there’s no way to accelerate mining operations to dilute their share of the market?”
Trojan shook his head. “Not without a huge investment in mining hardware. In fact, that’s the beauty of the system. It is inherently resistant to the kinds of manipulations that doomed the dollar.”
“Which is why you tubed the greenback,” Brock said.
Trojan nodded. “It had become hopelessly watered down and over-leveraged, which made it an ins
trument of theft.”
Sam waved her hand. She’d heard all of this before, at the ranch in the mountains, from the old man himself. “We’ll save the philosophizing for another time,” she said. “For now, I’m mostly interested in stopping these guys.”
“Not to toot my own horn,” Trojan said, “but I have some experience with these kinds of things.”
“Economic meltdowns?” Sam asked.
Trojan shook his head. “Computer virus attacks.”
Realization dawned on Sam. “That’s right. You’re the guy, aren’t you?” In the chaos of the past night, she’d forgotten that Trojan had built the virus responsible for hacking into all twelve Federal Reserve bank branches and erasing all the account data. Which, she reflected, had to be the world’s most devastating cyber attack, by a wide margin.
Trojan nodded, a strange mixture of pride and sheepishness on his face.
“So you can build a virus to stop these thefts?”
“Probably,” Trojan answered. “But it’ll take a while to spread, unless I can launch it from the NSA pipes again.”
“Do you still have your guy inside NSA?” Dan asked.
Trojan shook his head. “He’s long gone. Tropical island somewhere, with a new name, if he has half a brain.”
Sam nodded her understanding. Nobody could ruin your life like an angry Uncle Sugar. He had a way of coming after you with relentless abandon. “Other options?”
“I thought maybe you government types could let us in from the inside,” Trojan said.
Dan raised his eyebrows. “Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that. Sam?”
She pondered, then shook her head. “I’ll ask. But I don’t have high hopes. They’re pretty pissed off right now. And it’ll have to go to the DNI’s level.”
“DNI?” Trojan asked.
“Director of National Intelligence,” Dan translated. “Chief spook.”
“More apparatchik than spook,” Sam said. She looked at Trojan. “Would it be possible to sneak in to NSA’s network?”
Trojan nodded. “Anything’s possible. Those pipes are massive. They’re making a copy of every byte of internet, email, and telecomm traffic. It’s just a matter of taking the time to find a vulnerability.”
Sam thought for a moment. “We need to find a place for you to work, without fear of some low-level fed molesting you.”
“Can you get me back to Colorado?” Trojan asked. “I have everything I need there, and then some. And I’ll need Vaneesh’s help on the algorithm.”
Harv Edwards piped up. “I could travel with him. NORTHCOM headquarters is out there in Colorado Springs. I’ll lend a hand with the counter-terrorism effort.”
Sam nodded. “Sounds good. We’ve been given the keys to the kingdom. I’ll have a DHS jet take you guys out west.” She looked at Trojan. “You work on sneaking the virus into NSA’s pipes, and I’ll start working on the bureaucratic angle. Maybe one of us will break through.”
Trojan nodded his agreement, and Sam turned to Dan. “We should probably chase down that John Q. Public lead before it goes stale on us.”
Dan nodded, then looked out the window. “We’ll never get there by car, and I don’t know if the metro is running.”
“No worries,” Sam said. “We’ll travel like rock stars.” She dialed McClane’s office and filled him in on her plan.
Moments later, they made their way to the roof of the DHS building and boarded the helicopter.
They made two stops, first dropping Trojan and Harv off at the executive ramp at Reagan International to climb back aboard the government VIP jet for their trip to Colorado, and then at Sam and Brock’s brownstone in Alexandria. They hadn’t been home since the crisis struck, and they feared the worst.
Their fears weren’t unfounded. Looters had broken in. It looked as if they’d stolen the flat screen television and all of the food in the refrigerator and pantry. Everything else was untouched. “At least they were polite about it,” Sam said.
Brock nodded. “The food would have spoiled anyway.”
They made their way to the secure room in the basement. It was a vault, protected by a heavy steel door and disguised by room decor. It contained everything they’d need to either hole up for a couple of weeks, or grab a hit-and-run kit full of money, ammo, passports, and other sundries for a quick getaway.
The video feed from a dozen security cameras positioned around the house was also stored on a large-capacity hard drive in the vault. The surveillance footage was how she’d begun tracking down the werewolf-looking freak of nature who’d kidnapped Brock the previous weekend. She was tempted to search through the video to find footage of the looters breaking in, but realized it would be a pointless exercise. The looters would be long gone, and who would care enough to catch them?
Instead, they prepared for the unknown. They packed overnight bags. Brock grabbed his handgun from its case in the vault, a Kimber .45 that matched Sam’s beloved sidearm (his-and-hers Valentine’s Day gifts to themselves a few years back), and Sam restocked their supply of ammunition. Then they took turns in the shower and dressed in clean clothes.
They also donned ballistic vests. The world had turned uglier in the past two days, and it was best not to tempt fate.
Half an hour later, the helicopter lifted off from the park across the street from Sam’s house and veered southwest toward John Q. Public’s address in the trendy Shirlington neighborhood.
The Homeland chopper landed on the empty rooftop section of the Shirlington parking garage adjacent to John Q. Public’s address. Sam and Dan disembarked, while Brock remained behind. His leg wound was still painfully sore, for one thing. For another, in case anyone ever got back around to caring about due process, having a citizen participating in the official search of another citizen wasn’t even close to kosher.
Thanks to the President’s declaration of martial law, and several provisions in the USA Patriot Act, Sam didn’t need a warrant to search the apartment. She and Dan stopped by the apartment super’s office, hoping to have an electronic key programmed for Mr. Public’s door, and hoping to discover the name of the person who really lived in the apartment.
They found the super’s office vacant. “No sweat,” Dan said, producing a key card with a USB attachment from his laptop bag. “We’ll let ourselves in.”
They took the elevator to the twelfth floor and followed the signs to apartment 1236. Sam knocked. “Federal agents,” she announced in her most fear-inspiring voice. “Please open the door.”
Her request was met with silence. A nosey neighbor peeked through the doorway of an adjacent apartment. Dan shooed the old woman away with his hand.
Sam repeated the knock and announcement, waited a few seconds in silence, then nodded to Dan. He inserted the key card device into the apartment’s electronic lock, plugged the USB attachment into his laptop, and flipped open the computer. A few clicks later, the lock yielded.
“Scary,” Sam said, still awed by how far technology had come during her tenure at Homeland. “We’d have bashed the door in five years ago,” she said, drawing her weapon and releasing the safety.
She and Dan followed standard two-person forced-entry procedures to clear the apartment. No one was home.
But she was surprised, because the apartment was obviously someone’s home. There were pictures of friends and family on shelves and desks, bad bachelor art hung on the walls, dirty dishes rotted in the sink, and the bed was unmade. “This isn’t a safe house,” she said.
Dan nodded, searching for the cable modem. He found a modem and wireless router sitting atop a dusty printer in a corner of the room, and attached his laptop to the USB port. “Let’s see what’s up,” he said, mostly to himself.
Sam continued to search the apartment while Dan conducted an electronic search of the modem and wireless router. His laptop contained a Homeland-issued application that bypassed the password protection on most personal computing devices, but Dan didn’t need to invoke it. Username: admin. Pass
word: password. “Sixty percent of the time, it works every time,” he murmured with a smile, quoting a favorite low-brow comedy flick.
He frowned as he dug through the modem’s information. “Interesting,” he said after a moment. “This is a ComQuest modem, and it’s billed to a Jeffrey Santos.” He chuckled. Mr. Santos had paid eleven bucks every month for the past two years to rent a modem he could have bought for $90. Another victory by smart companies over stupid consumers.
“What happened to ‘John Q. Public?’” Sam asked.
“Exactly.” Dan searched through the modem’s cache. It didn’t have much memory, but it gave Dan a flavor of the recent activity. He found searches for internet porn, video game cheats, and a query on how to beat a parking ticket. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary, and there’s no trace of anything related to John Q. Public. No phone calls in or out, either, but the cache only goes back about twelve hours.”
Sam pondered. Had they been duped? Was it possible to have internet service at one address but billed at another? Certainly, she realized, but the service address would be plainly listed, which meant that they would have seen a different physical address when they looked up the telephone number they found in the dead spy’s cell phone.
Something else nagged at her. “What was Mr. Public’s internet company?”
“It was a Horizon account,” Dan said. “This modem is ComQuest.”
“Horizon is a satellite company, right?”
“Think so,” Dan said. “But don’t quote me. I don’t have any time for TV because my boss works me too hard.”
Sam chuckled. “That bitch.” She went to the balcony. Sure enough, a Horizon satellite dish sat perched atop the ledge, pointed south and up. Her eyes followed the cable at the base of the dish. It went into the exterior wall just beside the sliding glass door, but Sam didn’t see where it came out inside the apartment.
On a hunch, she grabbed a chair from the kitchenette, scooted it over to the wall adjacent to balcony door, and stood on the chair. She moved aside a ceiling tile. “Bingo,” she said. “Bring your geekinator. I found another modem.”
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 180